brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
|
I was 19, sitting alone in my college dorm room one Sunday evening in March. Earlier that day I returned to campus from spring break and classes resumed the following morning. I had that feeling I can’t quite describe. It wasn’t homesickness; it wasn’t longing. It was something in between. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. I wish Prince Charming would walk through that door, I thought. And in walked my future husband. I know that sounds like revisionist history. How do I remember a random thought that went through my head so many years ago? I don’t know; I just do. I remember he was wearing jeans and a red zippered sweatshirt with a hood. It was a little small and later he told me someone had stolen his jean jacket from the back of a chair in the student union, leaving the sweatshirt in its place. He really liked that jean jacket, he said; it took him a long time to acquire that perfect fade (this was the early 1980s, before the pre-faded look came into style). He had stopped by because he was returning a tape deck my roommate had lent him for the lacrosse team’s road trip over the break. We got to talking and we haven’t stopped since. And yes, he is my Prince Charming. He was my Prince Charming when he took me on our first date for ice cream. He was my Prince Charming when he hand wrote lyrics to a Led Zeppelin song and slipped them under my door. He was my Prince Charming when he showed up in my room at the infirmary on his way to practice after I landed there overnight with an ear infection, looking as happy to see me then as he does now, 32 years of marriage and three grown children later. And he is still my Prince Charming. He is my Prince Charming who cooks me dinner every night — and does the dishes, too. He is my Prince Charming who makes me laugh. He is my Prince Charming who helps me make the bed every morning, clears the snow off my windshield and promised me not only a rose garden, but a vegetable garden, too. He is my Prince Charming who plays guitar and writes me songs. He is my Prince Charming who never complains when I spend a Friday night with my book club; he is happy to keep the dog company, cook ribs because he knows I don’t like them and listen to his recently resurrected vinyl collection at way too high a volume for our neighbors' comfort. He is my Prince Charming who didn’t chastise me for absentmindedly driving his car to work one day, making him late because everything he needed was in that car, or losing my phone during a long walk with a friend. In fact, he helped me retrace my footsteps — did I mention it was a long walk? — all the while resisting saying out loud what was surely in his head — questions like, What were you thinking? And, Do you have any idea what a new phone will cost? We found the phone and now I recall that stressful afternoon as a convivial walk on a fall day. Don’t get me wrong — he isn’t perfect. He makes an awful lot of noise when he can’t find something he needs in the utensil drawer. He’s quick to accuse me — or one of the kids — of taking or moving or misplacing something and he’s right only 90 percent of the time. He can be a bit of a nervous Nelly. But that’s part of his charm, I suppose, and exactly what I didn’t know I was looking for that long ago evening while I waited for my prince to come. This appeared in the Nov. 9, 2017 issue of the Grosse Pointe News.
0 Comments
When I saw the post “Me too” pop up on my Facebook feed so many times I lost count, I didn’t join in. Not because I didn’t find it powerful and emotional, but because I honestly couldn’t think of an instance when I had been the victim of sexual assault or harassment. And until the #MeToo campaign kicked in, I didn’t realize how unusual this was. I did, once, narrowly escape an encounter that could have been much worse. When I was 10, my family spent the summer in a fishing village in Greece. We lived in an apartment over a restaurant on the beach. My brother and I used to hang out with village kids near the restaurant and the owner, Yiannis, was openly hostile to us. I’m sure our presence was bad for business. One day, during the afternoon siesta, I was alone on the beach and Yiannis invited me inside the restaurant for a lemonade. I was surprised how friendly he was — I had never before even seen him smile. My Greek was limited, but he gestured for me to come inside and I knew the meaning of the word “limonata.” Once I was at the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen, he handed me the bottle of lemonade. At that point he started to hug me. I tried to make sense of his actions. He was just being friendly, like an uncle, I told myself. I also didn’t want to be rude or hurt his feelings. But I knew what he was doing was wrong. I remember backing away from him and trying to sip my lemonade. He told me to finish the drink and bring the bottle back when I was done. I thanked him and started to leave, but he stopped me. “No tell,” he said, in English, and made a gesture across his lips. And I didn’t. I returned to our apartment and said nothing. Later I returned the bottle, exactly as I was told. There were several local fishermen in the restaurant at the time and Yiannis barely acknowledged me. That evening, after a family dinner at a restaurant farther down the beach, my brother and I were carving our initials on a piece of driftwood below our apartment. I looked up and Yiannis was standing in front of us. He spoke with my brother for a bit, but the moment he turned away, Yiannis caught my eye and motioned with his head toward the restaurant. After he left, my brother commented on how unusually nice he seemed. It was then I told him what had happened earlier that day. I think if I hadn’t let it out then, some part of me believed I needed to obey this adult and follow him into his restaurant. My brother was 13 years old. He was as innocent as I, believing adults were to be listened to, counted on and trusted. Yet he instinctively knew what was the right course of action. He didn’t doubt or question me, saying, “Are you sure? Is it possible you misunderstood?” or hesitate in any way. “We need to tell Mom and Dad — now!” he said. We ran down the beach to where our parents were still sitting on the restaurant terrace, enjoying a glass of retsina and the view of the Mediterranean. I don’t remember if I told them or my brother did, but either way, having him with me made it possible. And as soon as the secret was out, all the guilt, fear and shame disappeared. Any power Yiannis held over me was gone. I called my brother the other day to thank him — for believing me, for not questioning me, for knowing what was the right thing to do. He recalled the same details I did — even the log on the beach where we carved our names — which was reassuring, as memory can be a frail and elusive thing. But while I remember it all so clearly, what I can’t do is tap into the psyche of my 10-year-old self and recall why I didn’t immediately go to the person I trusted the most: my mother. She was the person to whom I confessed all my guilty secrets. The time I lied to a friend about having a horse. The time I pocketed a 15-cent trinket from a novelty store. Each time, my mother absolved me of my guilt with the strength of her love. That a stranger held that sort of power over me is what helps me understand why women all over the country typing “Me too,” many releasing long-held secrets for the first time, are not alone. |
Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |